


This Is Our Hell

by PhasicDreamer



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Language, F/M, Good thing you're patient, Mike is an asshole, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-05 23:30:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6727738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhasicDreamer/pseuds/PhasicDreamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Welcome to Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria, a personal hell to share five nights a week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Turning Back

_'Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria, Assistant Night Guard Needed'_

Those words, circled in bright red ink, haunted you for days.

            You didn't want to apply, any sensible person who's heard the rumors that surround the seemingly harmless family diner knew to avoid it like the plague and once upon a time you used to be one of those people. But that was before you lost your job and fell behind on rent.

            You were desperate and desperate times call for a newspaper and a marker.

            And that's what lead you to standing here, the ad balled up in one hand and the other placed flat against the cool glass of the pizzeria's doors. The building loomed over you like death, cold and intimidating but something you'd eventually have to face.

            Being that it is twelve in the afternoon on a Friday the restaurant is teeming with customers, from families celebrating their kid's birthdays to teenagers seeking thrills within the walls of what is supposedly a haunted pizzeria.

            They, of course, are sorely disappointed to find that nothing bad ever happens at Freddy’s during the day, not since '87.

            A chill crawls down your spine and you nearly pull away, but you force your feet to stay planted no matter how much they wanted to just book it as far away from this accursed place as possible.

            _You needed this job, you needed this money._

Taking a deep breath to steel your nerves, and partially to buy you more time, you work up the courage to push against the door. The creaking of its metal frame causes your stomach to twist, an overwhelming sense of unease washing over you the moment you step over the thresh hold.

            The door clicks shut and you give a shaky exhale, _“No turning back now.”_


	2. Welcome To The Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here at Freddy Fazbear's Pizza there are a few things you must remember.

Here at Freddy Fazbear's Pizza there are a few things you must remember. 

One, be sure to always bring a sweater or jacket as you'll notice the sudden drop in temperature upon entering. Don't worry, it's just the faulty air conditioning and will be fixed in due time.

Two, if you have any allergies to mold or dust please be sure to bring the required medication as the building is extremely old and has leaky water pipes that have the tendency to drip along the walls.

Three, the back rooms are strictly off limits. If you are caught near the faculty only area you will be removed and banned from the establishment.

Four, business hours are from 8am-9pm on weekdays and 9am-10pm on weekends. Do not remain on the premises after closing hours.

And five, it is for your own safety that we ask you not to approach the animatronics. We will not be held accountable for any injure or death caused by the animatronics during or after business hours.

Thank you and we hope you enjoy your time at Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria, a magical place for kids and grown-ups alike, where fantasy and fun come to life.

~ * ~

You shiver, the freezing air traveling up your exposed arms and leaving goose bumps in its wake.

The pads of your feet slap against the checkered tiles, reverberating off the water damaged walls and back to your ears twice as loud. Exposed wires present an obvious safety hazard as they hang from the ceiling much like their cobweb companions, dangling just high enough for your head to nearly brush them.

The air is thick and difficult to force through your lungs, whether it's from the mold infestation or your own inability to breathe you don't know. It might have been both.

You can't help but wonder how this place hasn't gone out of business yet.

Your eyes follow the walls, looking over each crudely drawn picture that kids have pinned up over the years expressing their love and admiration for their furry idols. The passage of time shows in the yellowing and curling of the pages, your heart squeezes painfully at the thought of where these kids are in the world now. If they are still in the world.

You try to completely gloss over the many self-promotional posters, but you swear you feel the 2D eyes of the animatronics following you.

Finally the narrow hall opens up into a large, brightly lit dining room that is bustling with life.

Kids laugh and scream while playing their games, parents supervise from the comfort of their own tables, teenagers crowd into booths and add to the public chatter with gossip and other topics inappropriate for a kid's environment, and employees weave in and out of tables like busy worker bees that serve greasy pizza and plastic smiles.

If your gut didn't feel like it was being stabbed by a hundred needles repeatedly you would've thought this to be a normal restaurant.

The stage curtain is closed and you sigh in relief, thankful that you won't have to meet the Fazbear gang just yet.

“Excuse me ma'am, may I help you?” a voice asks and your heart nearly leaps from your chest. You place the fist that still held the newspaper ad to your chest to keep the organ in place.

A waitress, judging by the notepad in her hand and the pen sticking out of her blond bun, gives you a curious smile. It's fake of course, it's employee policy to greet each customer with kindness, but you return it none the less.

“Um, actually yeah. I'm looking for Mr. Fazbear, I called earlier asking about the job opening and he said to come in whenever,” you explain, holding out your hand as if the crinkled paper would prove your point.

She doesn't take it, not that you were expecting her to. You quickly shove the paper into your pocket, cheeks flush with embarrassment.

“Oh, so you're the new Night Guard then?” she asks, that pleasant smile of hers becoming the tiniest bit unnerving.

“Actually I uh, I haven't exactly gotten the job yet. I'm here for my interview,” you say, hands buried in your pockets as you sway nervously on your heels. Something about this woman didn't sit right with you, her smile was too fake even for a restaurant employee and there was something...off about her tone.

Like she knew something that you didn't.

“Oh you don't need to worry about that, Mr. Fazbear hires anyone who's willing to work the night shift,” she claps happily, that grin of hers growing.

Immediate warning bells go off in your head, “What's that supposed to mean?”

She chuckles, the sound so menacing it kicks your body into fight or flight mode, and her empty green eyes meet yours as she chirps, “It means welcome to the family!”

Flight, definitely flight.

“Can I speak to the boss?” your sudden topic change doesn't deter her in the slightest, she simply motions you to follow as she strides across the room and out another doorway.

You hurry after her, her fast pace making it difficult to keep up. The dark, starry curtains of Pirate Cove shift as you pass by, a hollow and growl seeping out from behind the torn fabric.

You no longer have a problem falling into time with the blonde's rushed steps.

She leads you down the west hall, past a door labeled 'SUPPLY CLOSET', to a wooden door with the word 'MANAGEMENT' printed on it in bold black letters. A metal door lays on the opposite wall, black and yellow caution stripes painted along the bottom and 'SECURITY' at the top in the same black font as before.

This place sure loves labeling things.

You try and peer into the security office through the window beside the door to see what the working conditions are, but the glass is so scuffed up that all you can make out is how filthy the room is. If you got the job you'd have to spruce the place up a bit before you can even consider spending six hours in such an enclosed space.

The girl whose name you still didn't know knocked on the wooden door and waits. No answer.

“Don't worry, he's there,” she answers the question you didn't ask but were moments away from thinking, “My name's Vanessa, by the way.”

“It's uh, nice to meet you, Vanessa,” it was not nice to meet her. You awkwardly give her your name and she repeats it to herself, the way the syllables roll off her tongue not the least bit pleasant.

She knocks again, this time receiving a muffled 'coming!' and the shuffling of feet moving closer.

Vanessa turns back to you and you wonder if she ever stops smiling like that.

“Well, good luck Night Guard,” the unsettling girl spins on her heel, sending a wave over her shoulder, “Hopefully I'll see you tomorrow!”

You gap after her retreating form, repeating your earlier question just as she disappeared around the corner, “What's that supposed to mean?!”

The squeaking of the wooden door answers, drawing your attention to the sharply dressed man standing before you.

Mr. Fazbear is an older gentleman, the wrinkles carved into his face, silver peppered chocolate hair, hunched back and silver cane having seen younger days, but for an elderly he still had one killer sense of fashion. He wore black slacks over polished ebony shoes, a white button up tucked in and a brown vest thrown over. A Freddy pin rested on the left side of his chest.

He flashes you a grin, not like the one Vanessa has branded to her face, this one was a genuine tilt of the lips.

“You must be our new Night Guard! Please, come in, come in,” Mr. Fazbear waves you in, closing the door and hobbling to his swivel leather throne. His office is spotless, metal filing cabinets and book shelves lining each wall, a few paintings here and there to give it a dignified air.

Although the lack of windows and intimidating desk smack dab in the center with only two chairs on either side reminds you of an interrogation room.

When you don't move from your place by the entrance he gestures to the red plush chair opposite his dark mahogany desk.

You nod thankfully and sit only to find you'd been tricked by appearance, the chair feeling more like rocks than plush. You grit your teeth and bare it, if only for a few minutes.

“Actually, sir, I haven't gotten the job yet. I mean, that is why I'm here isn't it? For an interview?” it was the second time someone assumed that just by calling in you were immediately hired and you began to grow more than a little suspicious.

“Ah, I suppose so. Although, seeing how I'm the boss here wouldn't I be the most qualified to determine whether or not you got the job? Interview or not?” Mr. Fazbear chuckles and you choke on your tongue.

“I-I'm sorry, I didn't-” you panic, hoping to reel back your previous statement.

The dapper gentleman chortles, swatting at the air, “I jest my dear, there's no need to be so worked up. As I said before, you've already got the job, it's pointless to try and impress me now.”

So that confirms it then.

“But sir, I haven't even given you a reason to hire me yet,” you try and reason. Not that you weren't thankful to have a job, you're just perplexed by having gotten it without so much as trying.

“My, my, do you always look a gift horse in the mouth?” he links his fingers together and presses them to his lips, leaning forward on his elbows with an unreadable expression. It seems he's run out of kindness to share with you.

You shift in the uncomfortable seat, “No-o sir, sorry. Thank you for this opportunity, it really means a lot to me.”

He claps his hands and jumps to his feet, startling you to follow, “Excellent, it's settled than! You start tonight, I'll inform your partner and he'll be sure to expect you here no later than 11:50.” He walks around his desk to place a firm hand on your shoulder and directs you to the door.

Looks like your interview's over.

“I'll have Vanessa give you your uniform and all the necessary paperwork before you leave,” he rushes you out into the hallway with the same smile the waitress wore earlier that said he knows more than he let on, “Welcome to the family, my dear.”

And with that he slams the door, leaving you alone in the dark hallway wondering what the hell you just got yourself into.

**Author's Note:**

> Prologue, stay turned for our decent into hell.


End file.
